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Overwhelmed, mesmerized, captivated.
The echoes of her voice whispering my name filled my mind like a sacred melody I could never forget.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her—her moans, the way she trembled beneath my touch, the way her lips parted as she whispered words which were only meant for me.
My little disaster,
A beautiful storm I could never escape, even if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to.
She was chaos, but she was also my calm.
I’ve always been amazed by her. She walks into any room and commands it with her confidence, with that spark in her eyes that tells the world she knows her worth. But I see more. I see past the boldness, the way she carries herself like she’s unbreakable.
Inside, she’s so delicate, so fragile, that it scares me. It makes me want to hold her tightly, to keep all her broken pieces together so they never scatter again.
She doesn’t realize how breathtaking she is. Not just in the way she looks, though she’s a masterpiece in every sense of the word. It’s in the way she laughs, unguarded and real.
It’s in the way she looks at me, as if I’m the only person who’s ever truly seen her. It’s in the way her voice trembles when she tells me things she’s never told anyone else.
Last night, I saw her vulnerability, her chaos, her beauty. She trusted me with it all, and I don’t know how to put into words what that did to me. She let herself fall apart in my arms, and in that moment I knew I’d do it a thousand times over if it meant she felt safe with me.
The way she whispered my name, her voice laced with need and desire , keeps replaying in my head. It’s burned into my memory, something I’ll carry with me forever. I don’t deserve her, not really.
She’s too perfect, too pure in her imperfections. But she’s mine, and I’ll spend every day proving that she made the right choice by giving herself to me.
She’s my sweet witch, She’s unpredictable, fiery, and full of life in ways I’ve never experienced before. She’s also fragile, like porcelain, and that makes me want to protect her from everything. From the world, from her fears, even from herself.
I don’t just like her; I adore her. I worship her.
When I’m with her, it feels like every piece of me finally makes sense. She sees parts of me no one else ever has, parts I didn’t even know existed. And she doesn’t just see them—she accepts them. She loves them. She holds them as if they’re something precious, something worth keeping.
I can’t stop thinking about her touch. The way her fingers clutched at me, desperate yet tender, as if I was her anchor in a storm.
She gave me everything—her body, her soul, her fears—and all I want to do is give her even more in return.
